


the vocabulary of us

by paperlesscrown



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017) RPF
Genre: F/M, Fluff, RPF, Sprousehart, The Lovers Dictionary, Tribute to David Leviathan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-04-09
Packaged: 2019-03-18 02:20:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13672233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperlesscrown/pseuds/paperlesscrown
Summary: Sometimes, words won't suffice to describe a love like theirs. Unless, of course, they're in alphabetical order.





	1. Cole

**Author's Note:**

> This is my tribute to the amazing David Leviathan, and his incredible book "The Lovers' Dictionary". The dictionary format that this fic has taken is not mine, and I use it here in homage to Leviathan. 
> 
> Furthermore, this is a work of fiction. While it is based on a number of real-life events (filming of Riverdale 1.06, the Antelope Valley shoot, Comic-Con, the SH Hawaii trip, among many others), it is purely speculative, and was not intended to upset or offend.

 

 **aperture** ( _noun_ )

I wanted to capture you on film the moment I first met you.

The lighting, at least from a photographer’s perspective, wasn’t ideal; you were lit by nothing more than the fluorescent gleam of the lights overhead. There was no natural sunlight in that audition room - just an artificial pallor that made all of us look greyish and pale.

Not you, though.

That day, you were radiance and lustre and fire. Beyond the sudden certainty in my gut that I wanted to look at you for an unusually long period of time, there was something about you that day that drew me in. I averted my gaze - I didn’t want to come off as a creep - but every nerve in my body insisted on the contrary. I ignored them. Reluctantly.

What was it, though, that pulled me under? Perhaps it was your steely conviction, or your absolute, unflinching belief in yourself, both so evident in the way that you kept your head down, your eyes fixed on your script. Whatever it was, it was palpable - glaringly apparent to anyone who saw you (ask Cami. She was there. She knew it, too).

I didn’t photograph you that day. But maybe it’s for the best.

There are some things that are better captured by the unfiltered, evanescent lens of memory.

…

 **banter** _(noun)_

Should I have been surprised at the rapid accumulation of teasing remarks between us? My underlying, deliberate flirtation and your coy return?

One time, I threw out a joke - a half-insult, really - that would’ve thwarted a lesser being. To see if you would take it. To see how far I could push you.

I wasn’t prepared. You smiled, drew yourself up like a pistol, then roasted me so magnificently that my friends gasped, and couldn’t stop laughing for ages.

I fell so fucking hard for you that night.

…

 **confirm** _(verb)_

When I sensed the turning of the tide, I FaceTimed Dylan. He was puttering around his apartment, occasionally turning towards his phone, which was propped up on the kitchen benchtop. I asked him when he’d be back in LA.

“Two weeks, if the meeting with the William Vale contractors goes well, otherwise I’ll have to stick around here and push the trip back,” he said. “Why?”

“I want you to meet her.” I cleared my throat. “Lili, I mean.”

At the mention of your name - a name he had heard many a time over the last few months - he turned right around. I stared back at him, hoping that the implication was obvious enough that I didn’t need to elucidate _why_ I wanted him to meet you _._ My once-mirror image, his hair golden as mine used to be, fixed his eyes on me and nodded sagely.

“Alright.”

That day on the beach, you couldn’t have been more perfect if you tried. You cooed over photos of Magnus. You asked him about the brewery. Your interest didn’t even waver as he segued into an impromptu lecture on how to use squash blossoms to infuse mead. You both discovered an affinity for laughing at my expense, which I didn’t mind (at least not from you; _he_ just likes being a dick).

When you left, he and I hung back at the beach in companionable silence, staring at the horizon while finishing off our beers. He spoke up first.

“So… did you need, I don’t know, my blessing or something?”

I shrugged. “I just wanted to know what you thought of her.”

“You want my honest opinion?”

I sat up. “Yeah. I do.”

He polished off the rest of his drink, then looked at me, his face absolutely deadpan. “Cole, I’m sorry. She’s way too good for you.”

I laughed my head off. “Fuck off, dude.”

“Love you, too, baby bro.”

...

 **draft** _(noun)_

In my mind, I wrote and rewrote what I was going to say to you. It needed to be heartfelt, but not too sentimental. Articulate, but not overly verbose (as I often tend to be).

It haunted me, the thought of this hypothetical speech.

...

 **envelope** _(verb)_

It would all prove futile.

I wanted to enrapture you with my words.

Instead, I wrapped you up in my arms.

…

 **found** _(verb)_

Had I been lost before that moment? Because as I slipped in behind your sleeping form and you tensed for a brief, fearful moment before melting achingly into mine, I felt as though I existed only in the places where our bodies touched, and all the rest of me was smoke.

We fell asleep together on the couch. Actually, that’s a lie - _you_ fell asleep while _I_ grinned stupidly at the ceiling for what seemed like hours. I felt like I was discovering someone new that night. Not you: I was already learning you like most things I’ve learned in my life - passionately, persistently, obsessively.

I was discovering _myself_. Like a man seeing his reflection in the mirror after months in the wilderness, I was startled by the person I’d become.

He was happy. At peace. And he was falling in love.

...

 **green** _(noun)_

When I was in college, I took a class on art theory and criticism at Gallatin, where we did a whole two weeks on colour symbolism. Red is passion, anger, lust, love. White is purity, innocence, perfection. Etc, etc. You get the point.

Now, as for green.

“The etymology of green is simple,” my professor - the artist Meleto Mokosi - said as he paced around the lecture room stage. “It comes from the Old English word _grene,_ which has the same root as the words _grass,_ and more significantly, _grow._ This explains many of our symbolic associations with the colour: nature, energy, freshness and growth.”

He clicked on his laptop and an image of an Egyptian painting filled the large screen behind him. “The Ancient Egyptians, however, were onto this long before Old English even existed as a language. To them, green symbolised more than growth. Its hues painted the face of one of their chief gods, Osiris, the god of the underworld. It represented vigour and health, but more importantly, it represented regeneration. _Rebirth_.”

How apt. That the fervent green of your eyes was all I saw before I leaned in to close the distance between our lips for the very first time.

I was reborn in that kiss.

…

 **historical** _(adjective)_

It didn’t occur to either of us to mark the date. We only realised this months later. You were frantic. _We need a date, Cole._ And I understood that - the need to commemorate, to pay tribute.

But history is more than a timeline, is it not? And it’s more than just facts and people and places. It’s about _feel._ It’s about zeitgeist. It’s about what the senses recall.

I don’t need a date to remind me of the scent of your skin, the soft pillow of your mouth, the gentle pull of your teeth on my bottom lip, your hands on my chest, your wrists still caught in my grip.

The memory of you transcends chronology.

…

 **inarticulate** _(adjective)_

Sometimes it’s a look - an upward, innocent glance or a slight, playful glint in your eyes. Other times, it’s the maddening curve of your waist, or the shape you take as you turn off the light and move slowly towards the edge of my bed, your smile palpable even in the hushed darkness.

It’s in those times when you render me - yes, even _me_ \- speechless.

...

 **juxtaposed** _(verb)_

We were driving somewhere. I had one hand on the steering wheel, another on your knee.

“So you went to school to escape acting, and I escaped from school _into_ acting.” Your eyes sparkled as you drew that contrast between us.

I turned to smile at that. “Pretty much, yeah.”

“We were going in two completely opposite directions, essentially.”

“Yep.”

Silence. Then: “Huh.” You let out a rush of breath. “That’s crazy.”

I stole a quick glance at you. “What is?

“Just… that somehow, in the briefest window of time, we met in the middle.”

...

 **keepsake** _(noun)_

You thought you’d lost it - your white shirt, from the first night you stayed over.

I kept it for a while. I wanted to preserve the memory of its removal.

…

 **ladder** _(noun)_

A kiss triggered it - the deluge of questions that we had managed to ward off in the haze of each other.

Our first onscreen kiss as Betty and Jughead was supposed to be simple and straightforward. We’d both made light of it in the lead-up to filming. After all, we’d kissed _plenty_ by that point. What’s another one, right?

But on the day, I stood at the bottom of that ladder while Steven, our director, talked me through what he wanted. Slowly, it was becoming anything _but_ straightforward.

“Jughead’s putting himself in a vulnerable place,” he said. “Yes, he summons up the courage to kiss this girl he’s been rapidly developing feelings for, but down here, your character’s still in a place of nervousness and anxiety because he has no idea how the hell this is gonna turn out. It’s a big move for him. The ladder has nine steps on it, but really, the emotional equivalent of what he’s going through spans the distance of a thousand miles.”

I nodded in agreement. The wheels in my head were already turning, anticipating his direction.

“It’s a pivotal scene, and Jughead is driving it. He’s acting out of his own agency, exercising initiative over one of the only areas in his life in which he can have power - his feelings. So I guess what I need from you as an actor is to access that same vulnerability. To tap into your own emotional memory. Is there a place in your life where that vulnerability exists? I want you to go there. Safely, of course.”

So I did. There were plenty of moments in my life in which I’d felt vulnerable, but none of them felt particularly safe to delve into unless I had some sort of epic therapeutic debrief afterwards.

Then I thought of you, and how you made me feel reckless and exposed and exuberant all at the same time. And then it hit me.

I was about to kiss this girl that I was falling in love with _in front of a crew of twenty people._

My head started reeling.

_Does this scare her as much as it scares me - all the noise that surrounds us?_

_What if the noise overtakes us?_

_What if it becomes too much?_

_What if we crumble under the pressure?_

If I wasn’t feeling exposed before, I sure as fuck was feeling it now.

Suddenly the nine rungs leading up to Betty’s room stretched out to infinity, and the journey there felt like a quantum leap.

...

 **metaphor** _(noun)_

I kind of botched the kiss. You thought I’d forgotten my cue, saying your line (“What?”) twice - the second time, more forcefully - because I probably looked as lost and worried as I felt. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Britta flipping through the script, unsure of what to do or whether it was supposed to play out the way that it did.

But your lips were my ballast in the storm, and as I went in for that kiss, I felt the chaos in my mind subsiding, my vision narrowing to only you. Suddenly, it didn’t matter that we were surrounded by twenty people, with three cameras pointed in our direction, because the only thing that carried weight in that moment was me and you.

I always think of our process for filming that scene as a metaphor for us. Or at least for how I feel about you. We’re constantly surrounded by so much noise, but you are my touchstone for clarity.

In the contented silences of our drives home, I remember this: that you are the quiet in the clamour, the stillness that steadies me.

…

 **north** ( _noun_ )

“If you could be anywhere in the world right now, where would you be?”

You gave me a lazy smile from where you were lying down, near the foot of your bed. “I’d be right here. With you.”

I rolled my eyes and chortled at that. “Obviously. _Besides_ here.”

You sat up, the sheets bunched around your body. With your hair all messed up and the sunlight hitting you just right, you looked ethereal. “Wait, don’t answer just yet,” I said, grabbing my camera off the nightstand. “Hold that pose for me.”

You kept your eyes forward, away from the lens, already accustomed to the way I worked. “Honestly, how many photos have you taken of me, Cole?”

I snapped a couple. “Not enough.” I put the camera down and crawled over to you. “Okay. Back to the question.”

You chewed thoughtfully on your lower lip. “I’d have to say… Antelope Valley. I’ve never been.”

I scoffed. “Really? That’s like an hour from here, Lils. You could’ve picked, I don’t know, Hawaii or something.”

“Well, Hawaii is such a _dream._ That’s on my ‘someday’ list.” ( _I took note of that._ ) But I like my fantasies accessible.” I smiled and opened my mouth to make a crack about accessible fantasies, but you clamped it shut with your hand. “And please, have a little self-respect, Cole: the joke’s too easy. Don’t even bother going there.”

(Have I ever told you that I _love_ it when you call me out on my shit?)

“Alright then,” I said, taking your hand and kissing your open palm. “Why Antelope Valley? Why would you want to go there?”

“You’ll laugh.”

I shrugged. “Try me.”

“Alright. It’s a little self-indulgent, but… you know the poppy fields up there?” I nodded. “I want to go there, dress up like a fairy princess, and walk amongst the flowers and have my photo taken.”

I smiled. “Really?”

“Yeah.” Your face scrunched up in embarrassment. “Is that... lame? That’s lame, right? Like, total Manic Pixie Dream Girl bullshit.”

“No, it’s actually…” The first word that came to mind was ‘adorable’. Which was woefully inadequate. I felt as though I had to resort to some insanely specific German word, one that meant “an overwhelming desire to fulfill the dreams of a lover, fuelled by intense feelings of warmth and affection.”

Because even then, mere months into our story, I knew that I wanted to indulge every whim and wish of yours. That I would do anything in my power to make you happy.

“You there?” You waved your hand in front of my face.

I turned to you. “Alright. Let’s do it.”

“What?”

“It’s about an hour’s drive up north from here, and you’ll probably have to change there, but I guess you can always—”

You launched into me so quickly that our teeth knocked together, and I’m pretty sure I bit you by accident.

We laughed about it afterwards. Right before you went on to research every fast food outlet and candy store on the route to the valley. Right before I promised myself that I would do this more often - take adventures with you.

…

 **obsess** _(verb)_

I traced the soft muscles on your back with my hand, the black dress you wore on the day accentuating it perfectly. _Unfairly_.

“Get in the car,” I whispered.

In the backseat, I followed that same path with my lips - the one my fingers had made - inhaling the scent of the valley and of your skin.

Creating an addiction from which I could never recover.

…

 **proprietorial** ( _adjective_ )  

There are unspoken protocols in archaeology about what to do once you’ve found something incredibly valuable. The first priority is obviously protection, and archaeologists take this seriously; some use code words when talking about the found artifact (like “buttons” for gold, or “lemons” for silver) to avoid the constant threat of public theft, while others employ guards around the clock to preserve the excavation site. The more valuable the artifact, the more serious and intensive the protection.

It might be the archaeologist lying dormant in me, but I guarded the secret of us with a fierce protectiveness. Like a treasure goblin clutching its horde, I held on to the intimate knowledge of our relationship, reluctant to impart it to anyone else beyond my family and closest friends.

Because unlike so much of my life that is co-owned by my brother, or has been co-opted by the public, this thing that we had was wholly and completely _mine._ Or rather, _ours._ And I wanted to keep it that way for as long as possible.

There’s something sexy in that. In the secrecy. In what is hidden.

In looking at you from across the room, and knowing that no matter how beautiful you looked in that moment, you were still more transcendent in my arms that morning.

…

 **quell** (verb)

“Tsk, tsk. Be careful, dude.” Mad appeared at my side, a cocktail in her hand. The Comic-Con shindig was our last media obligation for the weekend, and it was pleasing to see her there - one of mine and Debby’s friends from LA, and now one of yours, too.

I gave her a look. “‘Careful’? Of what?”

She shook her head and laughed. “Seriously? You have no idea what you look like right now?”

“Well, I _am_ wearing a nifty red suit--”

“I think technically, that colour’s called _oxblood._ ”

“Yeah, I think I’ll stick to red.” Mad rolled her eyes at me. “Besides my nifty _RED_ suit, I haven’t the faintest idea what the hell you’re talking about.”

She leaned in. “Look I’ve known about it for ages now, so _I’m_ not particularly surprised, but when you’re making those desperate bedroom eyes at Lili...” I scoffed dismissively. She ignored me and went on. “When you’re doing _that,_ you’re pretty much broadcasting your relationship to the whole room. Actually, scratch that - _to this whole fucking town._ ”

I wanted to brush that off, but she may have had a point.

Comic-Con had been fun, but difficult. Both of us knew that we were under scrutiny, and had zero interest in responding to any rumour or speculation that had nothing to do with the show itself.

Even then, with that in the back of our minds, we just barely managed to suppress ourselves from enacting the normalcy of our relationship. Every time I was in your vicinity, I had to pull myself together, because after months of retaining the memory of your skin, I could barely trust myself not to touch you.

So instead, I sought you out in every interview, every crowded room. It didn’t matter where you stood or sat, whether you were close by or seated far away from me: I always found you, and somehow willed you to look my way. I didn’t really need much more than that - just the assurance that you were there was enough.

The party, however, felt different. As my eyes settled on you - as they were now trained to do - my gaze was drawn to others that had you in their sights. Particularly one - a brash industry type who none too subtly shifted course and crossed over to you and Cami.

Usually, I’m a fairly chilled out boyfriend, but it was the end of an insanely busy week, and I was exhausted and in no mood to look at other guys gawking at you. Or, in this case, brazenly chatting you up.

I put my beer down on a table next to me, my body steely with resolve.

Mad read my mind and nudged me sharply with her elbow. “Hey. Friendly reminder that it’s an _Entertainment Weekly_ party.” The implication was clear: the place was swarming with reporters. Technically off-duty, but obviously still tuned in to any whiff of gossip. “You sure you want to do this?”

“Sure,” I said, shrugging off my blazer. “Fuck it. Tell them we were _canoodling_.”

I could still hear Mad’s bark of laughter as I walked through the crowd, blazer in hand, driven by purpose. Your back was turned; Camila had to tap your arm to get your attention.

You raised an eyebrow at me as you turned around. “Cole?”

I needed an excuse. Anything. “Are you cold?”

“Cold? Um, I guess...?”

I stepped forward and reached around to drape my jacket over your shoulders - a signal, clear as day, for anyone who cared enough to read into it, including this poor, irrelevant fuckboi who had stupidly attempted to launch a flirtatious offensive your way. As he slunk away, I stayed where I stood, inches away from you, uncaring as to who saw us standing that way, that close.

In your eyes mingled incredulity, confusion and delight. _What are you doing? Do you know where we are?_ “Um. Are you okay?”

Was I? All I knew was that I was with you. And I’d been wanting to do just this one thing all night. Because I was tired of the pretence, and I needed my girl.

I leaned in and kissed you, right there in the middle of that crowded room. You went rigid with panic before melting against me, your lips soft and trusting and pliant in mine.

“I’m fine,” I whispered against your mouth. “Never better.”

…

 **recurring** _(verb)_

_Yours or mine?_

At the beginning of every weekend, you asked that on the drive home, your overnight bag sitting in the back of my car.

_Yours or mine?_

I didn’t mind either. My PS4 was at my place, but at least your washing machine actually worked.

(Okay, so mine just hadn’t been _used.)_

_Yours or mine?_

From a Friday ritual, it became a nightly one. Until nights turned into consecutive mornings. You’d go home to get more clothes. Eventually, you bought a toothbrush and left it on my bathroom sink.

One day, you leaned over and whispered at the end of a long day at work, _I’m tired._

_Let’s go home._

...

 **surprise** _(noun)_

I gave you a sleepy, lingering kiss goodbye before I left for my weekend shoot in LA. Making sure you were still asleep, I adjusted the folded printout of our Hawaii flight itinerary, propping it up on the nightstand, with a Post-it note stuck on top.

_“You and me. New Year’s.”_

I wish I was there. I wish I’d recorded it somehow, heard the screams that triggered the complaints to building management. As it turns out, all I received was this, a text message in all caps:

“YOU SNEAKY FUCKER I LOVE YOU SO FUCKING MUCH.”

...

 **trick or treat** _(noun)_

“So this washes off, right?”

“For the fiftieth time, Cole, yes.”

You were carefully drawing my skull teeth lines over the thick white base you’d applied to my face. I poked at your stomach. You looked up, close to the edge of your patience. I’d been doing that to you the entire time.

“ _Yes_?”

“Nothing, I just…” I tucked a stray piece of hair behind your ear. “You’re really good at this, you know? I love that.”

I watched as your hard, focused expression softened into appreciation. “Thank you, babe.”

“Also, we can still kiss with this on, right?”

You frowned. “It’ll smudge.”

“But how much are we talking, though? Like full-on smearing, or just a small streak here and there? Because if it’s just a streak, do you think—”

“Cole!”

“No kissing. Got it.”

I shut my mouth, clasped my hands neatly on my lap, the very picture of perfect behaviour. You giggled at the sight.

“Alright, you big baby. Just one more before I have to shade the black in.”

Like a kid being told that he could finally eat all his Halloween candy, I didn’t need to be told twice.

...

 **uneventful** _(adjective)_

But, in all honesty, so much of who we are dwells in the mundane.

In passing out together on the couch after a long day at work. In the gaps of silence as we trawl through Instagram before settling in for the night. In the text messages compiling the grocery shopping list for the week. In the exasperation as I trip over one of your heels in the dark. In seeing your face dotted with pimple cream. In the arguments over whose turn it was to pick the driving playlist.

Between monotony with you and thrills with anyone else, I’d pick being boring with you. Every single time.  

…

 **validate** _(verb)_

I rubbed my eyes in frustration and looked at the kitchen clock. 2 am. _Fuck._ I had an early call time, too.

“Cole?” You came out of the room, bleary-eyed and wrapped in the duvet that you’d dragged off the bed. “You’re still awake.”

“I am.” I swivelled around in my chair to face you. “Everything I’ve taken sucks. It _sucks,_ Lili. I’m sitting here trying to edit my photos, and I’m dying of cringe.”

“Oh, come on. You’re only saying that because it’s two in the morning and you’re your own worst critic. Here, move over.” I shifted a little in my seat as you sat on my lap, duvet and all.

You scrolled through the photos on my laptop. “Okay. Look at this one. See the way you’ve framed Sam here? In the rips of the white plastic?”

“It’s super pretentious, right?”

“No! God, what is wrong with you? It’s _stunning_. And see how he stands in the landscape, beyond the confines of the plastic? That’s like, a gorgeous metaphor for his process as an artist, how he’s broken free from the mold, how he’s his own man now.”

I sat there silently.

“Oh, and this one? The way you’ve tilted the horizon, and captured the sweep of his trenchcoat, the top hat in his hand? The lines in this are so bold and--”

“Brash?” I grinned at you.

You rolled your eyes. “I was gonna say ‘striking’, but sure, you can go with that.” I hugged you close to me. “Your work is amazing, Cole. Don’t you ever doubt yourself.”

“Thank you.” I kissed your shoulder. “How do you know so much about photography, anyway?”

You gave me a cute little shrug. “I learned from the best.”

…

 **whipped** _(adjective)_

See: COLE SPROUSE.

...

**xenophile** _(noun)_

I thought I was the nerd. But I wasn’t the one who loaned James Michener’s _Hawaii_ from the library and took it out to read on the plane.

It was adorable. But also, it made me want to take you everywhere. To spark your curiosity, to ignite your discoveries, to stoke the wonder.

If there was anyone who could be by your side as you found that the world was your oyster, please, let it always be me.

...

 **yes** _(unclassified)_

We’re light years away from the fact, but in my idle moments, I imagine it. I imagine how I’d do it - where, and when, and even who might be there.

Maybe our friends. My brother. Your family. Definitely a photographer. In my more delirious flights of fancy, a specially trained pug.

And you. Obviously you. Your hair caught up in the breeze, your eyes widening in surprise before crumpling in the weight of the moment.

Saying yes.

…

 **zenith** _(noun)_

We stood at the summit, the warm air punctuated by pockets of sea breeze. So many people think of the beach when they think of Hawaii, but - as we found out ourselves - its lush, verdant mountains are just as amazing and sublime.

I held your hand in mine as we looked out over the gorge and at the sea beyond it, the vivid cerulean of the deep bleeding into the viridity of the shallows. There was no-one else around, just us. I pulled you in, holding you in my embrace, relishing being alone with you.

I thought of the year that had passed, and my mind wandered to where I was when midnight struck over to 2017 - running down to the lobby of the William Vale while my brother and our friends waited outside the room we had locked ourselves out of, eating the remains of a pizza off the floor. You and I had tried to call each other to wish each other a happy new year, but in the tangle of signals and the confusion of the room situation, we didn’t make it, settling for a text message instead.

Thinking of the marked contrasts between _then_ and _now_ , a thought began to formulate in my mind - that this was it. That I had hit the proverbial jackpot of fate. Standing there, on the peak of a mountain in Hawaii, holding you in my arms, I had the very best that life had to offer.

But then you tugged at my sleeve and excitedly pointed out a pod of dolphins swimming in the waves, and there and then, I realised that my earlier assumption was wrong. Or at least it wasn’t entirely right. There were surprises around every corner. New heights to be scaled, new adventures to pursue. All of them with _you_.

“Oh my god, did you see that?” you asked.

I did, Lili. And I saw you. And realised the truth.

Our best still lies ahead of us.


	2. Lili

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second and final part of this experimental tribute to the amazing David Leviathan, and his incredible book The Lovers’ Dictionary. Includes references to Riverdale auditions and shoots, Comic Con, Mexico, Paris and other real-life events.

**avalanche** _ (noun) _

It started out like gravity. A small shifting in the snow.

I didn’t even know that winter had loosened its hold before I was sinking and drowning in everything that I felt for you.

…

**barely** _ (adverb) _

_ Do I remember meeting Cole? _ I get asked that all the time.

And the truth is that I kind of don’t. 

We met each other at an interesting junction in our lives - you, emerging from your self-imposed exile from the industry; me, crawling back tentatively into the arms of my passion for acting. 

We were ambitious and fired up and looking to prove ourselves - single-minded and focused. And then we met each other. Suddenly, like two arrows shot from the same bow, we found ourselves side by side, on similar trajectories.

Flying through the air, we eyed each other, intrigued.  _ Hello,  _ we said.  _ I didn’t see you there. _

Looking back, I feel like I should have had some sort of warning - a signal that our lives were about to overlap and intersect, and that mine was about to be altered in a way that I could never have predicted.

But what I got instead was this: a half-formed memory of some guy talking to me at the audition, and a vague reminiscence of a face that I would have called _ beautiful  _ had I looked at it for longer than five seconds.

Fate already had us in its hands: we would meet again months later. Still, I wish I had a time machine - some way to whisper to the girl who sat metres away from a love that was to become her own:

_ Look again. Learn that face.  _

_ Soon, you’ll be calling it home. _

…

**cadence** (noun)

In the months that passed, I learned the sound of your voice, familiarising myself with its rhythms and inflections as we spoke over FaceTime, traded lines in rehearsal, and hung out on our days off. 

Your voice told the story of your life, whether it was the slight Californian lilt that spoke of your first home, or the distinct enunciation - the hard  _ r’ _ s and  _ t’ _ s - that could only belong to someone who had to articulate his lines crisply and clearly for television as a kid.

Then there were also the smooth, fluent words that referenced your time at Gallatin.  _ Truthfully. Perspective. Trivialised. Narrative. Qualifiable.  _

Some people were bemused by that, surprised that someone with your background as a child actor on the Disney Channel could hold his own in an intellectual debate. I, on the other hand, found it fascinating. And sexy. 

But my favourite part of listening to you would be hearing my own name spill from your lips - the soft  _ uh  _ sound that almost rendered it as “Luh-lee”, which you preferred using over the more familiar, shortened “Lils”. 

I don’t know why, but to me, it was the dearest thing in the world - the fact that you consistently made the effort to pronounce the whole thing, rather than reverting to a moniker.

I’ll admit that I read into it, just as any girl falling in love would. Because every time you enunciated the two syllables of my name, I felt buoyed by this feeling that you wanted to know  _ all _ of me. Not just my nickname. Not just the truncated, edited version. 

But  _ me. _ Every paragraph, sentence, phrase and word. 

Even now, when you say it over the phone, when you whisper it against my lips, when you call it out in the dark, I feel it. I feel that I am seen. Understood.

Known.

…

**denial** _(noun)_

Your brother pulled a beer out the cooler, offering it to me. I cheekily replied that I wasn’t 21 yet. 

“No-one’s checking for ID, Lils,” he said, laughing as he leaned back in his seat. 

I arched an eyebrow at him. “Oh, so you’re promoting underage drinking now?”

“Well, I don’t know. Does brewing whole batches of mead in a small dorm closet as a 19-year-old count as ‘promoting underage drinking’?”

I stared at him. “Dylan. You did  _ not _ .”

You nodded in the background, confirming his story. I laughed.

“Seriously? That’s crazy.” He gave a smug little nod, obviously proud of himself. I gestured for him to continue. “Well, go on. You can’t just stop there. Tell us all your dirty bootleg liquor secrets.”

As he began to recount some crazy covert midnight brewing run that involved smuggling gallons of water out of the dorm kitchen, I spied you out of the corner of my eye. A soft, wistful smile was playing on your lips as you looked at us, almost as if this friendly camaraderie was exactly what you had hoped for between your brother and me - the girl who, in recent months, had become a permanent but undefined fixture in your life.

I remember wanting to catch your eye then. To smile back at you, to share in the secret of whatever it was that we were becoming. 

But the reflexes I had built into my mind were far too strong, and the fear of the unknown, of the uncertain, reared once again in the horizon. So I shut down that first, initial instinct, looked everywhere but in your direction, and repeated the familiar chorus - the one I sang to myself in bed at night as I prayed not to dream of you again:

_ We’re just friends. _

…

**evade** _ (verb) _

The messages wouldn’t stop. I took to throwing my phone under the bed to avoid looking at them, but that’s the worst thing any working actor could do - cut themselves off from the possibility of an important phone call. 

And so I was forced to watch the accumulation of messages and missed FaceTime calls from you on my screen, and every single one of them was forcing me to re-evaluate my stupid decision to avoid you while you were away on a shoot - a poor attempt to subdue what I felt for you.

But it was no use. There was no way I could avoid you. Not when the latest script for  _ Riverdale  _ sat on my table, your doodles all over the front page. Not when your stuff was sitting uncollected in the back of my car. Not when my leather jacket hung on the door handle, the one I’d worn the first time you casually slung your arm around my shoulder. 

No. There was no stopping this train.

What’d I tell you? You were an avalanche, Cole.

…

**facts** _ (noun) _

The following things are unequivocally true:

1\. That night you came home early from your shoot and cornered me at Debby’s with the promise of snacks and  _ Moulin Rouge,  _ I could’ve easily made an excuse to leave. I didn’t.

2\. The weight and feel and scent of your duvet, which covered both of us that night, is still embedded into my memory.

3\. Lying there next to you on the couch - our limbs entangled, our bodies fitting together like two stacked spoons - felt more than just good. It felt  _ right. _

4\. When you kissed me in the morning, I didn’t quite see stars. 

I tasted galaxies.

...

**goodbye** ( _ noun _ )

Whenever you used to drive me home, I’d hug you briefly from the passenger seat before sliding out of your car and climbing up the flight of stairs to my apartment.

This time, however, was obviously different. 

“I’ll walk you up,” you said.

Your hand slid surely into mine as we walked up the footpath, as if this was nothing new to us. I looked up at you and smiled.   
  
“Okay, then,” I said. “So I guess we’re doing this?”

“We’re doing this.”

We got to my door and I took out my keys. Every second was thrillingly uncertain, unsure as we were about how to do things now, post-kiss. 

“So,” I began, in an attempt to establish some sort of familiarity, “what are you up to today?” 

“I’m getting some proofs developed, then I have to unpack, maybe catch up on sleep.” You nodded at me. “You?”

I couldn’t help it. I had to know: could I still joke around you like I used to? I gave a melodramatic little sigh and wrung my hands for added effect. “I mean, obviously, I have to write ‘Cole Sprouse kissed me’ into my diary.”

You laughed at that. “I did, huh?”

“You definitely did.”

A brief silence. The humour of the moment died down as you stepped in. My heart was hammering against my chest as your hand cradled my face, pulling me closer. Could I get used to this?

_ God, yes. _

“I’ll call you tonight.”

“Alright.”

Then you kissed me, sweet and lingering, before half-whispering your goodbye against my mouth. I watched you descend the steps before unlocking my door and throwing myself into bed, my fingers touching my lips in disbelief.

_ Did that really happen? _

My phone lit up. A text message.

**Cole:** _I miss you already._

I held my phone to my chest and let out a rush of breath. 

“Yeah,” I said to myself. “It did.”

...

**hush** _ (verb) _

_ I know something,  _ I thought to myself, smiling as I picked up a bouquet of flowers from the supermarket (a small bunch of daisies. Just because). 

_ I have a secret,  _ I whispered in between love songs as I drove down the freeway. 

“I think I’m in love with you,” I mouthed quietly against your neck, unintelligible, unheard, my hand lost in the soft oblivion of your hair.

...

**inferno** _ (noun) _

It went beyond the heat that seared my skin in the places where you touched me, or the fever of our lips as they met over and over again, longing and unquenchable. 

It was in the sizzle of our banter - the swift accumulation of inside jokes and insults and meme references that everyone else struggled to keep up with (the subtext in every conversation between us:  _ I must’ve known you in a previous life _ ). 

It was in the blaze of our collective passion for our craft as artists - the photographs you asked for my opinion on, the late-night discussions over scripts, the arguments that flared up when one of us refused to back down from a point, the way we made up after. 

It was in the warm familiarity of your hand on my knee in the car as you drove. 

You and I, Cole, in every aspect of the word: 

_ We are fire. _

...

**juvenile** _ (noun) _

You didn’t know that I grew up practicing wrestling moves with my sisters until you pulled on my hair one too many times. 

Then it was too late.

…

**known** _ (noun) _

How did everyone on set figure it out?

Skeet: “When he let you drive his Jeep. Cole doesn’t even let  _ me _ drive his Jeep.” 

Madelaine: “When I got up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom and caught him trying to sneak out of the apartment.” 

Erin: “When he turned up to work without any scenes scheduled and tried to pass it off as ‘method acting prep’. Because hanging around the makeup trailer was  _ obviously _ helping him transform into Jughead.” 

Marisol: “It wasn’t really a matter of  _ how,  _ more like  _ how often.  _ How often would he make gooey eyes at you on set when he thought nobody was watching? Madchen and I were making bets.” 

Camila: “When he showed us his behind-the-scenes shots from Season 1, and it was basically the Lili Reinhart Slideshow.” 

Casey: “When he kept asking me what growing up in Cleveland was like. Look, I know Cole’s always interested in stories, and I’m sure he was interested in mine, but he wasn’t really asking about that. Beneath all that, I knew he just wanted to know more about you.” 

KJ: “When he brought back a whole tub of Ben and Jerry’s to our apartment, and told me not to touch it. I’ve never even seen Cole eat ice cream. So if that ice cream wasn’t for me, then  _ whose was it _ ? I should be in the FBI, Lils.”

…

**lust** _ (noun) _

There is so much of it, and not enough of us. 

Not enough of your body, and not enough of mine.

…

**muse** _ (verb) _

It started out simply enough - a grove of trees I remarked on as we drove idly and aimlessly through the wild, unexplored outskirts of Vancouver, and then, a sudden, bright look in your eyes. You pulled the car over and quickly unbuckled your seatbelt.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

No answer. I watched as you opened the back door and rummaged through your backpack. You took out your camera, slinging it over your neck.

“Come on,” you said, beckoning me over.

“What? Where are we--”

You grabbed my hand. “Just trust me.”

We trudged through the field, long blades of grass swishing against our legs, the soles of our shoes becoming damp from the dew underfoot. In the distance, an orange sun was setting, and you were iridescent in its glow.

You led us to the grove I pointed out earlier, releasing my hand before walking about five metres away from me.

“Uh, Cole?” I called out as I stood there, not knowing what to do with myself. “I know I sound like a broken record… but seriously, what are you doing?”

“What are  _ you  _ doing, you mean?” 

I blinked, confused. “Oka-aaay. What am  _ I _ doing...?”

“Looking up at the trees,” you said. I gave you a skeptical look. “Go on. Go for it.”

I narrowed my eyes at you before looking up at the tall fir behind me. There was something about the random absurdity of the situation - the sudden stopover, the long walk through the field, the instructions to look up at a tree - that made me giggle all of a sudden.

_ Click. Click. Click. _

I turned to look at you. You lowered your camera, grinning at me.

It wasn’t as if I was surprised. And it wasn’t like you’d never taken photos of me before. You always had your camera on you after all, and so during shoots - in between scenes, in our trailers, anywhere, really - you’d snap away. 

But it was never like this - never just us alone in the middle of nowhere. Here, it felt like we were deliberately creating a separate world - one where you were the artist and I was the subject, and there was a deeper intimacy to that that startled me. 

I raised an eyebrow at you. “What was that?”

You slung your camera around so that it was on your back. “That, Lili, was the sound of a camera shutter.” 

I rolled my eyes. “I know. Just…” I struggled for words “Am I modelling for you now or something?”

“Well, the term ‘modelling’ implies artifice. A performance. And this isn’t that.”

“Alright.” I smiled and put one hand on my hip. “So what  _ is _ this?”

You slowly walked up towards me and all my cheeky bravado vanished.  _ How the hell do you look that good just WALKING, you little shit?  _ As you encircled your arms around my waist, I gave up any pretense of being cute and coy and gave in to the forcefulness of your gaze. You looked at me for one long, quiet moment before you spoke. 

“It’s truth.”

I gave you a skeptical look. “Truth?”

“A guy called Jean-Luc Godard - French New Wave director from the sixties - once said that. ‘Photography is truth.’”

“Hmmm. Interesting.” I nodded, taking it in. “And why did this remind you of that?”

“Because that’s what this is.”

“What is?”

“This, here. It’s truth.” You brushed away a stray lock of hair off my face, grazing my cheek with your fingers. “Here, in the middle of nowhere, just me, you, my camera… there’s no pretense, no filter, no mask. Just us.”

_ Us.  _ I held my breath.

“And when I’m capturing you on film, like I am right now, I’m really capturing  _ me _ . How I see you. How I feel for you.”

My head was spinning. I focused intently on your collar, determined to avoid looking at you. 

Because even then - with your ardour and the obvious intensity of your feelings for me - I still felt like I wanted to hold on to some of what I felt for you, to keep it to myself. Just in case. Just to be cautious. 

“Lili?”

You tilted my chin up and I made note of the soft pressure of your fingers, knowing that it was the last thing I’d feel before you leaned in and took me over to euphoria.

The car door slammed minutes later and I thought,  _ oh, god. _ I felt the leather of the car seat pressed up against my back, saw the reddening sky in the window behind you, sensed your hand reaching desperately for the hem of my shirt.

Even then, I knew. 

_ I’m not gonna be able to resist this, am I?  _

_ … _

**nicotine** _ (noun) _

You’d kiss me in between drags of your cigarette. As if you couldn’t wait until the end to do it. As if you couldn’t get enough.

As for me, I’d wave my hands lazily in the smoke you’d emit, disrupting the rings you’d form, creating snow angels instead. There was something comforting in that - in making something together. Smoke patterns. Photographs. Love.

You’re the one with the smoking habit, but we both know addiction so well. 

...

**occupancy** _ (noun) _

It started out slowly - to be exact, with my favourite cardigan.

I’d left it lying around somewhere in your apartment, and it was the last thing I had to pack away into my overnight bag before heading out to run a few errands. 

For some reason or another, I couldn’t find it that morning. You were still asleep, so I crawled around quietly in your room to try and see if I’d left it lying on the ground at some point.

“Hey.” Your voice was still husky from sleep. “What’re you doing?”

My head popped up. Your eyes were still closed, but you were definitely awake. “Looking for my cardigan. I’m sorry, did I wake you up?

“A little,” you mumbled. You picked up your phone off the nightstand to check the time. “You’re leaving this early?”

“Yeah,” I said, sitting on the edge of the bed. I ran my fingers through your hair. “I’ve got a whole bunch of things I have to do this morning - my laundry, for one. And Mads is starting to complain about the state of the apartment, so I promised her a spring cleaning date today.”

You scoffed. “Let her spring clean by herself. Stay here with me.” 

I softened at the tender need in your voice. “But I thought you had a whole bunch of photos to edit?”

You groaned. “Shit. Yeah, you’re right.” You pressed my hand against your cheek. It was warm from your pillow (you liked sleeping on your side). “Sorry, what were you saying about your cardigan?”

“I can’t find it,” I said. “Any idea where it could be?”

“Which one was it?”

“The long black one.”

“I can’t remember seeing it.” You sat up, rubbing your eyes, your torso still bare from the night before. I stared. For a brief, tempting second, I considered rescheduling with Mads. “Do you need it today?”

“Well, no…”

“So just leave it here then.”

“Cole, you don’t have to look --”

“No, I mean… until the next time you stay over. Just keep it here.”

There it was. The first piece of me that stayed behind at your place. I was taken aback by how casually it happened - this establishment of the new normal. It was a vote of confidence in our future together, a stake of permanence in our relationship. 

And it didn’t end there. Slowly, our apartments would give way for the signs of this new season. Your scarf hanging off my couch. My lip balm on your coffee table. Your camera on my window sill. The two different brands of shampoo sitting in your bathroom. The ashtrays I had to buy for my place. The hairpins you kept stepping on in your bedroom. Teddy Roosevelt on my fridge. The king-sized duvet I had to purchase for my queen bed because you kept complaining that I hogged the covers. 

Bit by bit, we were beginning to take up space in each other’s lives. And with every inch that we yielded to each other, we were moving from the temporary to the indefinite. 

…

**prolific** _ (adjective) _

The words pour out of me and I can’t help it. I buy a new notebook and a pen, struck by inspiration, determined to pin them down to paper.

You have your photographs and I have my poetry. You take me into the wild and I take you into my writing. You capture my poses and I write my prose.

I write hundreds of words for you, and about you. I draft and edit and rewrite and cull. 

And then you turn up at my door and I look at the lazy half-smile you wear as you let yourself in and suddenly, my poetry seems insufficient to contain everything that you mean to me. 

I’ll try again, and I’ll keep trying. 

I will write you a thousand times if I have to.

…

**quiver** _ (verb) _

I tried to keep it subtle, but when Camila touched my arm warningly, I knew that I’d been obvious. I’d done it far too many times - turned around to look for you in the teeming crowd of industry insiders and off-duty reporters - to pretend to be indifferent towards your presence in the room.

We were at our last official shindig for Comic Con, and while we both enjoyed the experience, we were also eager to get back to our little bubble in Vancouver. I wanted you, and not just our brief, covert embraces in the night when you managed to sneak into my room. I wanted the simple domesticity of simply being together - lying on your couch while you sat on the floor, your head resting against my thigh, the sound of your video games punctuating my reading. 

And I wanted it all the more as a flashy, slick-haired, suited-up hotshot - an agent of some sort - approached me and Cami with all the subtlety of a hyena scavenging for scraps, clearly intent on some sort of flirtatious exchange with one of us. Cami wasn’t having any of it, and I was already wearied by the whole thing before he even spoke two lines. Because here’s the thing about love and attraction: once you’ve had the real thing, anything that tries to emulate it falls glaringly short. 

Cami and I made eye contact with each other - that stealthy look that every girl has mastered when they need to collaborate on a mutually agreed exit strategy. She had just loudly mentioned going to the washroom (my cue to follow her) when she suddenly went quiet, tapping my shoulder to turn around. I saw a brief flash of red splitting the crowd before you swiftly placed yourself between me and the guy.

Cami covered her mouth with her hand, stifling her laughter at the situation. You fixed your eyes on me intently, the heavy, insistent beat of the music in the background fading into a dull roar. 

I could barely speak. You were so close to me - closer than you’d been all week. We’d been so careful, and now I couldn’t think straight. I managed to squeak out your name. “Cole?”

“Are you cold?” you asked suddenly. 

To tell you the truth, I wasn’t. The room was suffused with the heat of the party, of bodies standing too close to one another. If anything, I was a little warm. But you looked at me, nodding almost imperceptibly, almost as if to say,  _ please say yes. _

“Cold?” I said. “Um, I guess…?”

You shrugged your jacket off your shoulders and draped it over mine - the distinct smell of pine and leather and cigarettes filling me with the sense of being yours, of being marked as your girl. Your hand had somehow slipped underneath the jacket, grazing my lower back before holding on firmly to the curve of my waist. In the background, the poor hotshot agent was relegated to the periphery of our little tableau, and he casually sauntered off, attempting to preserve his pride. 

I felt myself tremble - half out of desire, half out of the fear of being surrounded by so many media reps who, while technically off work, could smell a scoop from a mile away. I looked at you, trying to will you to understand, but also trying to claw my way desperately out of the pull of my desire for you.

_ What are you doing?  _ I pleaded with my eyes.  _ Do you know where we are? _

“Um,” I began. “Are you okay?”

But apparently you were past caring. Because before I knew it, you were leaning into my space, closing the gap between us, essentially flipping off the spotlight. 

When you kissed me, you did so with an open defiance. It was gentle and soft, but also an act of rebellion. A challenge to everyone around us, as all pretense fall away.  _ You want a scoop? Scoop this.  _

“I’m fine,” you whispered, smiling once we broke apart. “Never better.”

...  __

**response** _ (verb) _

Predictably, our respective publicists called us both the next day. A whole bunch of media outlets had called,  _ People  _ Magazine included. We were expecting it, but it was something else to have it actually happen.

I turned to you. 

“So what now, Cole?”

...

**silence** _ (noun) _

In the contemplative silence of our room, I remembered a moment from Mexico. 

We were at a museum, our footsteps echoing down the halls as we slowly took in the exhibits. It was the one thing you wanted to do, the archaeologist nerd in you coming out in full force.

Mexico was loud and brash and full of colour, and so the eerie silence of the museum was palpable, almost disconcerting, after the wild noise of the city.  _ Why are museums always so quiet? _ I wondered. I mulled it over as we walked past a glass case displaying funeral masks, eventually posing the question to you.

You were thoughtful before replying. “There’s always silence around the sacred,” you said. “When we used to work with burial sites, it was the same. We’d always work quietly - it was just this unspoken rule. You don’t want to taint something that’s hallowed and sacrosanct with your inane chatter, you know?”

I remembered this then, the calls from our publicists still echoing in our ears, and it couldn’t have been more timely. 

The thing is, I readily spoke of you to my family and close friends - raved, even. But beyond that, I was reluctant to share what went on between us to anyone beyond that circle.

Because I want to preserve us for  _ us.  _ To save some of the mystery. To safeguard this thing that we have that feels so incredibly precious. 

People say that love makes you want to yell from the rooftops. Me? I’m not so sure. When it comes to us, I want to keep you in the quiet and intimacy of a secret.

It’s like what you said. 

_ There’s always silence around the sacred. _

…

**tighten** _ (verb) _

We chose not to deny it, effectively outing ourselves. But neither were we talking about it. And in that space between silence and speaking, there was freedom.

I’ll be honest. For a fleeting moment, I was worried that it would put a spanner in the works - that the cogs of our relationship would shudder at this this sudden interruption.

But instead, it had the opposite effect. 

It was liberating. It pulled us closer together. It made us more conscious of what was ours.

The crows of the media clicked at us, but we remained as we were, waiting for the storm to pass, sheltered in each other’s arms. 

You and I - we were a unit. Strong. Impenetrable. A fortress.

...

**underneath** _ (verb) _

I noticed a faint scar on your back as you began to put your shirt back on. I traced it lightly with my finger.

“Where’s this one from?”

“Fighting off thieves in Italy who stole my luggage,” you replied. A switch clicked over softly in my mind.

The shirt never went back on.

...

**vulnerable** _ (adjective) _

Not counting shoots or other moments in character, I’ve only seen you cry a handful of times.

Most recently: you came home from a shoot one weekend - the one where you heard the news - and I hugged you at the door. I knew what it was like. I’d lost a dog once, too.

That night, in bed, there were no shudders or heaving sobs - just a spot of damp on my shoulder when you thought I was asleep. 

I turned around, startled. We stared at each other - your eyes two pools of sombre ocean, my own spilling over in response. 

Without a single word passing between us, I took you into my arms, gathering you up in your grief.

I held you there until morning.

...

**warrior** _ (noun) _

It’s you who stays in front when we make our way through a crowd - shielding me, making sure that whatever insanity is happening upfront hits you before it gets to me. 

In warfare, though, it is always the rear that supports combat forces, sending down weapons, food, medical supplies, materials for shelter, and, if necessary, holding down the final stand.

That’s me. That’s what I do.

You may be the one out on the frontline, but I’m fighting for you, too.

...

**xoxo** _ (expression; signature) _

There is a romance inherent to Paris. It permeates the streets and flows through the Seine and colours the sky. 

It’s obvious during the day, but at night, it’s everywhere. You can’t miss it. It glitters from the lights of Eiffel. Even if you couldn’t see the stars, you could feel their fire in your fingers.

We were swept up into it on our first night. I was brushing my teeth, getting ready for bed, when I looked out the window and saw a couple dressed up for the opera - he in a tux, she in a floor-length gown - lost in an amorous embrace, kissing under the streetlight outside of our hotel.  

“Hey,” I whispered, gesturing for you to come over to the window. “Come have a look. And bring your camera.”

You peered out through the curtain and smiled down at them, this beautiful couple without a care in the word. You looked over at me. “I’ve got a better idea,” you said, grabbing my hand as you pulled me towards the door.

I held my ground when I realised that you intended to pull me outside. “Cole, what the  _ fuck. _ I’m in my pajamas!”

“Just put on your shoes and throw on one of your hypebeast coats.” I rolled my eyes at you. “We’ll be five minutes, tops.”

The lobby was quiet aside from the concierge on duty. I smiled helplessly at him as he looked on, puzzled and bemused by the sight of us. It was nearly midnight, and a girl in her pajamas and coat being pulled along by her boyfriend was probably fairly amusing to behold.

“ _ Coooole, _ ” I moaned as we crossed the street and I wrapped my coat up more tightly around me. It was freezing that night. “What are we doing?” 

The couple had moved on, but you pulled me under the very same streetlamp and dipped me toward the ground with a flourish, kissing me passionately, like something out of an old Hollywood movie.

My first instinct was to laugh at the theatrical ridiculousness of what we were doing. But you must have sensed that, because you pressed in more fervently, shutting down any potential for comedy, taking my breath away. I would have fallen to the ground for sure, had you not held me tightly in your arms. When you brought me back up and steadied me on my feet, it took me a moment to gather my thoughts. I smiled stupidly at you.

“What was that for?”

“I just felt like it.” You took my hand and brought it up to your lips, kissing my knuckles. And I knew exactly what you meant. The air was thick with desire - or was that just us?

Either way, you just shrugged and said, “Blame Paris.”

...

**yet** _ (adverb) _

“Japan,” I said.

“Where in Japan?”

“Kyoto.” 

You picked up two small stickers and stuck them on the map. “Okay, I’m adding one to Tokyo too, because… well, anime central.”

I giggled and peeled another one from the sheet. “Okay. Your turn. Last one.”

You thought about it for a while. “Alright. This place is like, a photographer’s dream, so… Iceland.”

I held up my hand up for a high-five. “Oh my god, babe. Same! Northern lights, right?”

Our hands met with a satisfying smack. “Northern lights,” you confirmed with a smile.

I planted the sticker right on Reykjavik. You picked up the map and we looked at it admiringly. It was covered in green and red stickers. Green was for where we’ve been together - Canada, Hawaii, multiple cities around the US mainland, Mexico, Paris - and red was for where we were yet to go. Italy. Nepal. The Maldives. New Zealand.

“Red outnumbers green at this point,” I said, sighing and hugging you from behind.

“I know,” you replied. “But not for long.”

You leaned back and kissed me on the cheek. 

“We’ll have more adventures, Lili,” you said, with the fierceness of a vow. “I promise you that.”

...

**zeitgeist**

I’ve always loved collecting mementos - ticket stubs, business cards, concert wristbands, receipts, dried flowers... anything that was a physical remnant of a memory. 

I have a box full of them, a collection I’d started as a teenager. Every now and then, I would open it and go through each piece one by one, memorialising the past.

What do I have from us? 

To catalogue only a few - a deflated balloon, a small piece of paper with the numbers 4103, and a page ripped out of a dictionary.

They’re not much. They’re not precious gems or trinkets or long, flowery love letters. But they are artefacts from our relationship - physical embodiments of the spirit and zeitgeist of our story. 

The deflated balloon, I took home from set. We’d both inhaled helium from it during a break in shooting, laughing in unnaturally high-pitched voices, annoying everyone else.

The small piece of paper, you slipped stealthily down the table during our panel at Comic Con. It was your room number, two down from mine. You’d asked to be transferred that morning, when you realised we weren’t on the same floor.

And the page ripped out of the dictionary, I found on your pillow the morning you left for a shoot. It was a section out of C, and you’d encircled the word  _ crave  _ in red pen, with an arrow pointing out to my side of the bed.

They make up a small portion of what I’d collected, but in all honesty, there should've been more. We’ve made so many memories, Cole. We’ve written hundreds of pages and chapters in each other’s lives.

But I guess my mementos - the ones I truly treasure - don’t fit inside a box. 

They are moving, alive and vibrant. They’re you, and they’re me. 

They are embodied in the way that my eyes would linger on your lips for a fraction of a second longer than necessary. In the familiar grip of your hand on my shoulder. In the scent of my perfume on your clothes. In the mingling of our breath as we talk late into the night, and in the way that you say my name.

These are the things that can’t be captured in a small space of cardboard, or in my most eloquent poem, or even in your most beautiful photograph. 

And I’m fine with that. I’ll do my best to remember these pieces of transient memory.

Because these are the intangible proofs of our story, the language of who we are and how I imagine our love. 

I will memorise them. I will learn them by rote.

I will repeat each one until I am fluent in the vocabulary of us.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who read this, who looked forward to the update and encouraged me with such kind words.
> 
> This was such a journey, and personally a huge step up in my writing. I am grateful to have an audience who patiently stuck around while I played around and experimented with the form, narrative and emotion of this RPF. 
> 
> Thank you for giving this fic a chance. I truly appreciate it.
> 
> Last but not least, thank you to jandjsalmon and theatreofexpression, who beta'd the heck out of this and helped to make this the work it is today. Your friendship is a treasure.


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